


i'm just waiting for the sun

by earthandblood



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Demons, F/M, Mythology - Freeform, Vampires, slayer!Skye, vamp!Phil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthandblood/pseuds/earthandblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because having an inappropriate crush on a 2000 year old vampire (amazingly enough) isn't the weirdest thing Skye's experienced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Running (and stumbling, _ew_ ) through garbage in a dark alley was not what Skye had in mind for tonight.

No, tonight was going to be her and some ramen noodles marathoning a pirated copy of Firefly in the van.  A perfect evening, thank you very kindly.

(Skye’s pretty certain she has some sort of cosmic can’t-catch-a-break thing tied to her soul.)

And just, _ugh, vampires_ ; thinking they can just pluck unsuspecting humans right off the street.  She’s not - unsuspecting, that is.  Eight years of slayerhood (six of them decidedly _off_ the Watcher grid) means some lame-o newb vamp jumping her on the street barely warrants more than an eye roll these days.

The newb in question glances back to gauge her distance, and _bingo_ Skye leaps and tackles him by the waist, both of them hurtling out of the alley and onto the open sidewalk.

There’s a moment of scuffle ( _as if_ , she thinks) and then it’s just her, kneeling in a fine layer of vamp dust.  Seriously, can tonight get any grosser.  While trying to shake any remaining dust from her hair, a cramp and throb in her pelvis brings Skye’s attention back to the present.

_Wait.  Vamp was successfully staked.  Unless…_

Dark eyes sweep left, then right - there stands a man, pale with dark thinning hair, staring at her, mouth barely twitching with a crooked smile. 

“Um.”  Wow, that was totally intimidating.  He’s practically cowering at that verbal display of badassery.

Skye scrubs absently at her brow before freezing, as if remembering _duh, vampire_ and rises into a defensive stance.  “Right so, you’re a vamp?  Well, I’m a slayer.  I think now we’re supposed to fight to death.  I feel a little bad about it though, your suit looks expensive.”

That earns her a real grin, a flash of white teeth, before his face slides into impassivity.  “Do you make conversation with all the vampires you slay?”

Skye lifts her left shoulder in a shrug, “Usually, they just sort of try to kill me right off the bat.  Bite first, ask questions later, I guess.”

“I don’t particularly care to be out of control in my behavior,” the man replies cooly.  He reaches up to adjust his also expensive looking tie and Skye finds herself distracted by the elegant motion. 

She can’t even believe her own stupidity when suddenly her vision is plunging back into darkness and her back hits the brick wall in the alley, the weight of his forearm across her throat.  Lifting her hand only to have him grasp her wrist in some sort of lock that forces her fingers open, and the stake rolls away uselessly.

“I should be in my van, nestled in a blanket with a happy belly full of steamy and delicious noodles, not dealing with you undead jerkwads,” Skye growls in frustration.

The man quirks an eyebrow at her.  “Stop struggling.  I’m not interested in killing you.”

That...was not the usual line.  Skye feels her brain blank out for a response (what vampire _doesn’t_ want to kill her - hello, slayer?) and so reluctantly relaxes, like 1/100th of an inch.  He doesn’t relax the weight across her throat; stop, this is ridiculous -

“Okay, first of all, if we’re actually going to have this conversation, I can’t keep referring to you as _he_ or _him_ or _the vamp_ in my head, so I’m Skye and you are?”

“Phil,” is the short answer she receives. 

“And secondly, me slayer - you vampire.  This tends to have one of two endings, both involving death.”

_Phil_ shifts his weight but still doesn’t ease off, and hey wait did he just glance down at her cleavage?  Skye feels herself flush in the darkness and yet again can’t believe her own stupidity.  The corner of his mouth lifts; right, he can totally hear her (stupidly, _traitorously_ raised) heartbeat.

“I don’t make it a habit to feed on humans; it’s messy, and attracts the wrong sort of attention.  Having a connection at the local blood bank helps.”

Skye can't help but huff impatiently.  "Fine, whatever.  We go our separate ways, you off to do whatever it is vampires do when they're not eating people, and me to my noodles and Nathan Fillion."  Nobody ever said she was the most  _devoted to the cause_ slayer.

_Finally_ , he pulls his forearm off her throat, long icy fingers just glancing across her collarbone.  Skye shivers involuntarily against the contact, but she's not sure if it's from the cold or - best just stop that train of thought right there, missy.  Just because she can't remember when the last time she even _made out_ with anyone doesn't give her any excuse.  Besides, the whole doomed romance thing totally isn't her style.  

Not that that's what this even is.  Not even close.

Phil steps away silently and Skye takes the first breath in what feels like forever; the sudden lack of his bodily presence in her personal space is throwing her off.

"Try not to get jumped by the undead again tonight."

It's not even funny how she can't seem to keep her face stony; the scowl pulling at her mouth gives her away and Phil smiles, adjusting his tie.

"Ugh, just move-" she shoves past him, face flaming and resolved to march grumpily back to the van.  But there it is, the lightest brush of his cool hand against her passing wrist.  Skye whips around with a sharp comment burning in her throat, but it dies at her lips when she realizes she's alone in the alley.

Eating cheap ramen noodles alone in her cold van doesn't seem as appealing anymore.

_Great.  Just great._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the feedback! i really have no plan for where this is going, just following the bits and pieces that i think up.

A whole two weeks pass (no, she’s totally _not_ keeping count) and Skye prides herself on not even sparing a thought over _Mr. Suit_.

Fine, perhaps there was like, one thought but in her defense she was stuck in the van during a storm and she was totally bored and ( _wait, does this count as thinking about him?_ ) -

Stupid vampire.  Stupid, weirdly kind of hot vampire.  Ugh, enough, back to City Park Patrol.

Skye takes her annoyance out on an unsuspecting tree stump.  Resorting to physical violence usually makes her feel better, but this leaves her strangely unsatisfied.

As soon as the thought slips through her mind though, something _heavy_ decides at that moment to crash into the back of her skull. 

Oh god, she might actually vomit and when did the grass get this close to her face?  There is a wet, sucking sound coming from somewhere (Skye’s brain hasn’t made it off the tilt-a-whirl just yet) and the ground beneath her shudders.

Of course that’s when the thing decides to spear her in the shoulder, white hot pain searing across her.   _Of course_ , she can barely think over the agony before instinct kicks in and she’s grabbing for the antique silver pin she put her hair up with, trying to shove the pin down what she thinks is the thing’s snapping jaws, feeling razor teeth slice cleanly through her forearm.  Skye curls in, then pushes both feet up and out and whatever is pierced through her shoulder wrenches free; there’s no stopping the howl that tears from her throat so she doesn’t even try.

The thing is howling, too; an awful, melting (a part of her dimly wonders _can sounds melt or is that my brain?_ ) noise and flailing what looks like spear-tipped tentacles at her.

 _Getupgetupgetupgetup_ screams everything in her, but her limbs feel sluggish, weighed down.  The thing is shuddering towards her and it’s all Skye can do to haul herself towards the tree stump that bore her earlier wrath.  She needs something to pull herself up, if she could just get to her feet, why won’t her feet work -

There’s a disgusting _SLOSH_ and Skye finally manages to shake off the woe-is-me pity party long enough to focus her gaze on the thing. 

Except, it’s not there anymore.  Specifically the top half.  With all the stabby tentacles.

 _Huh_ , remarks Skye’s brain tiredly, and she slumps against the ground with a sigh.

“Skye.”

It’s _him_. 

“Tech-nic-ally,” she slurs out, “that thing wasn’t undead, even though it did get the jump on me.” 

“You got distracted by something.”  He lifts his chin slightly and it takes her a moment to figure out that he’s _scenting the air_.  Ah yes, indignant hadn’t yet made a scene this evening.

“Are you stalking me, Phil?  Because being a vampire makes you creepy enough as it is, trust me.” 

A beat passes, but Skye’s not totally loopy enough to miss the way his gaze slides to the gaping wound in her shoulder.  Cold fear wells up in her gut for the first time in his presence and she suddenly renews her efforts to get to her feet.

“I’m not going to eat you,” Phil says, a slight note of unhappiness coloring his voice.  Skye can’t quite understand the expression on his face; uncomfortable?  Distressed?

“I think you may have been poisoned.  You don’t smell right.”

“M’fine, but thanks Agent Obvious.”  Okay, so maybe she’s not totally, 100 percent fine.  But big girls don’t cry, and the slayer is the chosen _one_ , and if she can just make it back to the van she can probably sleep this whole thing off. 

He’s leaning down towards her, amusement now evident (she feels oddly proud of amusing him, must be the blood loss plus demon poison) as he asks her, “Agent?”

The words feel like they’re sliding, dripping from her brain down into her mouth.  “The G-Man suits don’t ‘xactly scream captain.”

Phil’s hands are reaching for her very slowly; either he’s painfully telegraphing everything so as not to spook her, or her perception has gotten like, way skewed all of the sudden.  Cold fingers grasp around her waist and she clenches her eyes shut against the fiery pain flaring in her injured shoulder.

Her hands seem so small, so easily swallowed up by the utter blackness of his suit.  “I think,” Skye starts with a heaving sigh, “that you may have been right.  ‘Bout the poison.”

Phil doesn’t reply, and Skye finds she can’t seem to hang onto consciousness any longer after that.

 

* * *

 

The complete wrongness of the situation is what propels Skye into waking.  She sleeps in a cramped van, not in a hotel-quality bed with a soft down comforter.  It’s supposed to be stuffy and noisy when she wakes up in the morning, not cool and quiet.

The memory of what happened comes rushing back when she attempts to sit up, dull pain throbbing in protest.

“Fuck!”  Her voice is hoarse from disuse and she can’t help coughing.

“Good, you’re awake.”  Skye visibly starts; _jesus_ , she needs to get him a bell.  His face looks definitively uncomfortable now, pale hands clenched around a glass of water.  After a minute Skye starts making _come here_ motions and then he’s quickly pushing the glass into her waiting hands, quickly retreating away from her.

“Your shoulder is actually healing rather nicely.  And the herbal poultice has cleared most, if not all, of the poison from your system.  If you had made it back to your van, you would have languished in fever dreams for a week before sucumbing to death.”

Phil looks like he’s trying (he’s obviously out of practice, playing at nursemaid with his _mortal enemy_ ) so she tries to muster up a smile, and his face softens a fraction in response.

It’s a nice, if not slightly awkward, moment.  Skye briefly wonders what this scene would be like if they were _normal_ , but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.   _What if_ doesn’t get you anything but a broken heart.

“Skye,” he starts, and his voice, low and soft, breaks her out of her reverie.  “Where is your Watcher?”

Well.  She can’t say she’s surprised.  The appearance of ‘renegade’ slayers is often a troubling sign of the times, foreshadowing some Big-Bad throwing a tantrum all over the city.

Skye exhales.  “I ditched him.”

Phil hasn’t moved since he gave her the glass and it doesn’t look like he’s planning on breaking the streak anytime soon.

“I don’t have a family.  I grew up in an orphanage, and when my slayer powers ‘activated’ a Watcher showed up to adopt me.  Let me tell you, getting adopted by _The Council of Disapproving British Grandfathers_?  Not exactly my cup of tea.  After two years I split, and went off their radar.”  Skye tries to shrug but winces painfully and aborts the gesture.

“In light of recent events, maybe I should have paid more attention to the physical slash stabby death part of my slayer training.”

At this Phil gives her a small, genuine smile.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this.  You’re like the first person, in the entire history of my life, who has even pretended to care about me.  So if I’m coming off super awkward or ungrateful for saving my life, it’s just that,” Skye pauses and her free hand flutters in the air.   _I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop_ she wants to say, but that’s unfair to him and she knows it.  So her parents didn’t want her.  And so the Watchers obviously pulled some magic mojo and called another slayer since she hasn’t been bothered since she ran away. 

Saving her life has to count for something.

He must see something in her face because suddenly the glass is being gently pried from her grasp, his other hand pressing lightly into her good shoulder, directing her back down.

“You should rest.  Let your shoulder finish healing.”

Warm exhaustion rises up to embrace her, and Skye murmurs in agreement with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing furiously, and oh look a wild plot appeared!

Skye figures she’s pretty much back to normal when she wakes up and doesn’t internally freak out over her way too nice surroundings.  

Oh, and look; Phil’s left a glass of water for her.  How considerate ( _for a vampire_ , the slayer part of her brain hisses.)  Skye eyes the glass warily and sighs.  What if he was just waiting for her to recover?   _What if he’s out there right now, plotting her tasty and poison-free demise?_  This particular train of thought temporarily derails when the sound of a conversation drifts into the bedroom.

Three voices, one she thinks is female.  The other two are both low and male, and Skye can’t really tell the difference through the door.  Right, he’s probably invited his undead BFFs over for a feast of _idiot slayer a la mode_.  A cursory glance around for weapons reveals...pretty much nothing.  The nightstand legs would be decent stakes, but that would involve breaking said nightstand.  Which involves making lots of noise.  

So that’s a big check in the “definitely not” column for right now.  

Stepping out of bed reveals ice cold hardwood floors; Skye can’t help rolling her eyes because what reason would the undead have for keeping the heat on?  His electric bill is probably ridiculously cheap.  Not that Skye knows anything about paying electric bills.  Or having any bills, really.  Living in a van means you have day-to-day expenses; there is no month-to-month in her life.

(She very specifically does not think about how utterly pathetic her life must look to the average, mystical observer.)

Apparently she’s made too much noise _just getting out of bed_ because the conversation quiets abruptly.  Skye takes a deep breath and steps to the door; this is most definitely not how she saw her life ending.

 _Is she honestly surprised, though?  Slayers aren’t exactly known for their “long-lasting flavor.”_  Skye decides being the chosen one can eat a big one, and pulls the door handle.

Phil is sitting in a clean, if not minimally decorated, lounge area with two other people; an unnaturally good-looking woman sits across from him in a single chair and a sharp looking man is perched very still on the back of the sofa.

“Skye.”

He has this way of saying her name that makes her stop; she can’t figure out what it is exactly, only that no one else has ever said it the same way.  She must be looking like a deer in headlights because the sharp looking man breaks into a grin and says, “I gotta tell ya Phil, she’s cute, but I don’t see why anyone would send a _N’gnalt_ after her.”

“It’s practical overkill.  They wanted to be absolutely sure,” replies the woman, her eyes green and watery like an algae-choked pond.

It takes Skye’s pride a minute to catch up to the conversation.  “Um hey, standing right here,” she starts angrily on it’s behalf.  Bird-boy actually crows at this ( _this is seriously not the time for puns Skye_ ), then tilts his gaze and head very crisply towards Phil, who is just staring at her, hasn’t moved an inch since she came through the doorway.

(He’s sort of very _something_ about her, and Skye would probably be more creeped out but he hasn’t actually tried to kill her the whole time they’ve known each other so she’s trying really hard to not be completely paranoid about the whole thing.)

Phil gives up on his statue impersonation finally and sets a tumbler of something dark on the coffee table.  “This is Clint, and Natasha.”

“Oh, so,” and Skye can’t help but make air quotes here, “old friends of yours?”  He makes a weird face at her in response.

“I had Clint store your van safely away.  Natasha has been looking into your attacker, and it’s possible summoners.”

“Shit!  The van!”  Skye completely forgot about her precious home on wheels;  it would have been totally towed if not for Phil, and she really doesn’t have the cash to deal with the lot pirates.  “Well,” she stumbles out awkwardly, “thanks.”  They’re all just still staring at her so Skye shuffles quickly to take a seat on one of the bar stools (Phil regards her choice of seating with a confused expression, but doesn’t speak up); far enough away from them that she might have some time to grab a weapon from the kitchen ( _yeah right_ ), but close enough not reveal how seriously she is wigging out right now.

Because this?  Is a wiggins-factor of ten.  

A frown starts pulling at her mouth.  “I don’t get it.  I keep my head low, I live in a van for god’s sake.  One patrol a month, just to make sure there aren’t any, I don’t know, babies being sacrificed to ancient Sumerian gods.”

Natasha shifts ever so slightly, and maybe it’s just the lighting in here but Skye is pretty sure the woman’s hair is dripping wet (yet strangely _not_ dripping on Phil’s furniture.) “You are an active slayer; you will always be seen as a threat to certain factions, no matter how small and out of the way you try to make yourself.”

Well, this is just fantastic news.  No matter where she goes, all sorts of bad guys are going to be itching to bag themselves a free range slayer.  She must have committed something karmically catastrophic in a past life for this to be happening.

Apparently her face isn’t that great at hiding her panic over this since Clint slips down effortlessly from the sofa and assumes a more open stance.  

“Hey, don’t freak out just yet,” he says to her with a small grin, “there’s a whole night ahead of us to scout for nests, and that’s just what Nat and I plan to do.”

“...Nests?”

Clint scratches the back of his head sheepishly.  “Yeah, usually where there’s one _N’gnalt_ , there tends to be a nest somewhere nearby with three more.”

Oh, this is even better.  Three times the potential poisonous, stabby death.   _What is this, I just can’t even_ she thinks, furious at the universe for a moment.

“Okay wait, if we’re coming with you I need some weapons-”

“You and Phil aren’t coming with us,” Natasha cuts her off, not impolitely.  “I maintain a studio that only the three of us know about; Phil is going to take you there so that we can keep you hidden from whoever it is that is trying to kill you.”

Things are spiralling out of Skye’s control much too fast.  And she really doesn’t understand why these people, who (one) have no reason to trust her since traditionally slayers murder most undead and mystical creatures, and (two) are complete and total strangers, would ever put forth this much effort to help her.

Her: an orphan, a slayer academy flunkie, and now a girl with stabby death warrant.  Skye doesn’t get much time to feel sorry for herself as Natasha rises like water flowing from her seat and heads for the door.  Clint starts to follow, then swings around to look at Skye.  “We’ll stop by in a few hours once we finish our sweep.  You like tacos, Skye?  I’m always a little _peckish_ after exciting evenings.”  Something wild and unidentifiable passes through his expression, and she thinks maybe he’s playing it up just a little for her amusement; her suspicions are confirmed when she catches both Phil and Natasha roll their eyes at Clint, more fondness on Phil’s part and more exasperation from Natasha.

Suddenly Skye feels like there’s a whole lot to their collective history.  Maybe she’ll get to ask Phil about it, if she survives this.  She definitely doesn’t consider that she will ever be more than a footnote in said history.  

Natasha whispers something to Phil, and then she and Clint are out the door with barely a whisper.  The silence in the apartment feels a little stifling now.  Phil is looking at her (always, always _looking at her_ ), swallows as if he’s going to say something.  “I had Natasha pick up some clothes for you; your jacket was ruined in the attack and the weather’s turned rather cool lately.”

At some point Phil removed her jacket, had moved his hands over her bare skin.  This doesn’t actually bother her as much as she thinks it would, and she really doesn’t know how to feel about that.  That particular thought is totally going to have to be revisited, but at a later time that doesn’t involve potential life-ending demons.  

Skye runs her fingers over the supple leather jacket Phil has handed her.  “So, your friends - they’re not vampires, are they?”

He shakes his head minutely.  “Natasha’s secrets are hers to keep, and to tell if she so chooses.  And Clint...has been many things to many people over a very long period of time.”  

She must look way caught up in her own head because Phil presses cool fingers to her wrist, moves into her personal space to get her attention.  “We should get going, Skye,” he says softly.  His fingertips don’t quite leave her skin as they walk through the door. 

Three people now have been dragged into this mess she calls a life.  Time to pull on her big slayer pants and make things right.


End file.
